Cross your heart and hope to die
by Hija del Angel
Summary: It is quite normal for two children who've loved a good book to try and play it out, is it not? But what happens when the two children, despite coming from utterly 'normal' families, are in fact magical? What happens if the 'swearing' they do while playing robbers turns out magically binding?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not only someone else's sandbox, but someone else's sand castle. I'm just trying to pretty it up (and succeeding only in destroying it).**

There are moments in life when we reach a crossroads in time, where one small decision decides the fates of many, when the flutter of a butterfly's wings can make or break a country, or when a smile can save lives.

Often such moments feel perfectly innocuous. The decision makers could not identify this one moment and say, "There. That was what saved the world/your life/my sanity."

One such moment was a cold and hungry morning for Harry Potter, a perfectly normal boy who had been left by perfectly normal relatives in a perfectly normal park overnight.

An oversight, they would claim later.

In any other world, Harry Potter might have been too scared to leave the park, waiting all night for his Uncle to come for him.

Not in this one.

Harry Potter instead saw a library, warm light spilling through a chink in the curtains, the crack under the door, and it attracted a cold, hungry, scared boy, who carefully crept down the street to this seeming haven.

In any other world, Harry Potter might have found the library closed or closing, unwilling to offer shelter or any other alternative to the unpleasant dampness of the night.

Not in this one.

Instead he stood hesitating at the threshold between dark and light, looking down at the doormat which said a welcome, wanting to enter, but unsure of his reception, listening to the pleasant, indistinct hum of conversation, listening as a bright voice laughed and trying to prick up enough courage to actually make a noise, announce his presence.

In any other world, Harry Potter might never have summoned his courage, might have returned dragging his feet to the park and waited for his relatives to return. In any other world, the librarian might never have looked up and seen something, enough to make her investigate. In any other world…

But, as we have said, not in this one.

Harry remained there, unsure, wondering what to do. He might have stood there indefinitely, but for the librarian's eventual voice saying clearly for once, "Hermione, check the door, please? I have a feeling someone is out there. There's a dear." He might have run, feeling briefly guilty, but the allure of the warmth was too much.

He heard footsteps, and the door opened slightly, just a crack that let warm golden light spill past him into what had a second ago been cold and inhospitable, and was now converted somehow into something more inviting, if only a little. A girl, his age peeked around the door, and blinked at him for a moment, clearly not seeing him.

Then her eyes sharpened, and he knew he had been spotted. She opened her mouth, and Harry just knew it was going to be some sharp unwelcoming inquiry and he shrunk into himself slightly. But then her posture seemed to soften and she opened the door wider. "Please, come in." was all she said, eventually.

And the world changed, just like that. Simply because one girl had just been given a lecture by her Aunt, (A library is a place of welcome, dear, a sanctuary for people of intellect, a modern-day church!) and because a small, cold boy found welcome in a warm library.

He was told later that Hermione had been left with her Aunt, the librarian for that night, and that the librarian lived above the library, and that both of them had just been talking, discussing as close family often do, skipping from subject to subject, laughing and being happy, content.

But at that time, all that he could do was stumble in through the door, finally entering the warmth of a large room, with a lit fireplace, a rug in front of it, and two cozy chairs, one occupied by the librarian Harry had only seen from afar 'til then.

She looked up at him with welcome, waved him to a seat. There were no questions about where he had been, and why at that time. She just smiled at him and continued her conversation with the girl, Hermione, who dropped onto the rug as if she had always been sitting there. Harry felt no pressure to talk, to participate, but he did not feel like an outsider either.

He listened, not to their conversation, but to the cadence and tone of the words, as they rolled on and on, sometimes rising in a laugh, gentle from the librarian, a little girl's shrill from Hermione, sometimes falling to a low whisper. And slowly he felt so very calm and warm, and quiet and his head drooped, and he was asleep.

* * *

Harry left early the next day, having woken up to find himself on a mattress on the floor of the library, covered by a warm blanket. He waited in the park until his 'family' returned for him, and went with them quietly, returning to a home that, despite being warmed by industrial grade heaters, held not a shred of the warmth that the library would have held with only a candle for a source.

And that year, when his class was taken on a field trip to the local library, he carefully noted the location and how to get there.

The first time he went there alone, he found himself a reason to be there. It was easy. He determinedly went up to the main desk and asked the librarian to give him a book. Though her face clearly said that she recognized him, she did not mention the shivering little boy that had spent a night in her library.

Harry knew that he could not have picked the girl, - was it Hermione? - out from a crowd. But the book he was given was Tom Sawyer, apparently really liked by boys his age, as the librarian had mentioned kindly.

He liked it. More to say, he loved it. And when he returned to the Library, hoping to obtain new books as well as return that one, there was a demure girl seated by the librarian's side.

She leaped up, seeing the book in his hand and immediate chatter began. "Oh, you had Tom Sawyer! I wanted to reread it, and I just couldn't find it, and that's so frustrating! Did you like it? Mark Twain is such an amusing author, don't you think." There was a brief pause as she scrutinized Harry's face, then, "Oh! You're that boy! What's your name? Why did you leave in the morning? Do you not have a home?"

Harry was pretty sure his face was conveying his feeling's exactly,_ 'What...?'_

The girl, her name _was_ Hermione, eventually managed to make Harry tell her that yes, he had enjoyed the book, and yes, he had a home, and his name was Harry, before the librarian rescued him, taking Tom Sawyer, handing it to Hermione, handing him Huckleberry Finn instead.

Then she closed the library temporarily, and took him and Hermione to the park. Harry wondered why, but not for long. Hermione seemed an enthusiastic companion, the likes of which he had never had before. Harry was unsure exactly how to behave, and Hermione didn't seem any more well versed in the art of communication with one's peers. In the end both of them ended up on the swings, swinging gently while discussing the book Harry had so recently read.

Both of them were rather enamored of the idea of 'having an adventure', and during discussion, come across the 'dark and dangerous' vow that Huck had referenced as the ideal vow of loyalty.

Smirking conspiratorially, plans were made despite Hermione's show of reluctance. And it was mostly show, and Harry was starting to understand this girl, like he had never had the opportunity to understand any other of his peers.

* * *

They met again at the park, this time at midnight. Harry had to be very careful sneaking out, as Dudley had been having a bad night, and kept wandering downstairs for water, or cough drops, and banging on Harry's cupboard door on his way back. But he managed to finally reach the park unobserved. Hermione was waiting with a backpack on her back, clearly prepared for any situation they might face.

They nodded to each other, either too tired to really say much, or just reticent by nature, neither truly knew, or even thought that much into it. Both turned and started making there way, side by side down to where the graveyard was, as shown on city maps. It was a long walk for their short legs, but just having company comforted them from what ever fears may have started to bud.

That had been the closest they could think of, a grave within a mausoleum in a graveyard, substituting for the haunted house and coffin thing.

But when they arrived, neither of them could remember what Huck had said about the oath itself. "Something about flinders?" Harry suggested helplessly with a shrug.

"And friendship." Hermione added firmly.

So they decided to make their own. Hermione had brought two sanitized needles for the blood part, and both sat and argued over the exact wording of their oath. When that was done they argued over who should do it first. The argument, interspersed by hysterical laughter that came with being awake at that time, only stopped when they realized that the sky was lightning.

Harry went first, pricking his finger, and letting the red drop trickle on the stone gravestone of someone whose name they had not bothered to read. "I swear," he started, at first trying for a deep impressive voice, then quickly giving up, "to always regard Hermione Granger with affection, treat her with kindness, afford her honesty, remain loyal to her, respect her, help her when and where I can, to protect her with all I am, and, in short, to be a good friend, a brother to her. Fiat!"

That ending had been argued over, Hermione having won the argument by stating that Latin was always cooler. The compromise had been Hermione's saying, "So mote it be."

Harry shivered slightly, as an odd feeling passed over him, tugging at the deepest part of him, giving him an... awareness at an instinctual level that he had not known could or would happen. He didn't feel that much like laughing anymore. The ceremony pulled at him, but before he could comment, Hermione was speaking the words, and he tried to dismiss the feeling as imagination.

"So mote it be," he chimed in after Hermione finished with "Fiat!" Then was wracked by a violent shiver this time in tandem to Hermione, both of them gasping as if ice-cold water had been thrown over them.

And there was a _presence_ he could feel, not just a slight awareness anymore, not hovering at the edges of consciousness, but pushing it aside to make itself room, pushy and authoritative.

"What-?" "What was that?" They both spoke simultaneously.

They stared at each other, uncomprehending, startled. After a while, Hermione shook her head, and said dazedly, "We need to get back. We- we'll talk about this later."

Harry nodded, and both turned and left the graveyard together, side by side not looking at each other, heads bent and staring soberly at the ground, but wordlessly acknowledging the other's presence with a wholeheartedness little seen in more guarded people then a couple of children.

They made a strange sight for any watcher, who might expect more boisterousness from children of that age, but it was something that felt very inexplicably right to both of them.

* * *

For the next few days the two children met in the park, trying to figure out what had happened, reading, laughing, and becoming close friends. The presence that Harry described as living with a pet, a prowling, purring panther in his head, Hermione described as living with a comforting security blanket.

It was on the third day they actually figured out what the presences were. Something had gone wrong, very wrong, and they were standing across each other, fists clenched and straight at their sides, shouting at each other. Who knows how these fights start? Perhaps Harry had insulted one of Hermione's favorite fictional characters, perhaps Hermione had said something about Harry's 'family'. At any rate it escalated, and soon held no connection to the original point of contention, and insults flew, thick and childishly hurtful, until Hermione was reduced to tears, running away while Harry inhaled harsh and quick, blinking back his own hurt tears.

He turned to the swings, where they had so often sat side by side, talking quietly, or not so much, swinging gently, or trying to go as high as possible, pushing their limits until it seemed as if they could let go, and almost fly...

Sitting there, trying to convince himself that he didn't care, Harry turned his attention to his passenger, his head's occupant, and realized that it was distressed. It was, of course, not exactly a panther, but the prowling, growling, slinkily assertive manner that it had strode into his head had reminded him of one of the huge black cats he had seen on Dudley's T.V.

But it was upset, curling in on itself, then lashing out, vibrating with hurt, that he saw. Sensing it, Harry felt that it reminded him very much of the way Hermione had run away from him, that desperation, that hurt, and suddenly everything clicked.

Anger forgotten, Harry ran after Hermione.

Coming towards him, he saw Hermione, running as fast as she could, tears drying on her face as she smiled for all she was worth, the joy of a discovery shining in her eyes, embedded in every inch of her smile.

She was coming too fast, she was going to crash into him, and she did. Harry automatically caught her, swinging her around purely on ingrained instinct, whose source he did not know. She didn't even notice, babbling, "Oh, Harry, I found out what our passengers are! They are-"

"-Each other." Harry interrupted her, smiling, as she laughed in pure excitement.

"Yes!" She broke away, skipping a few steps, then whirled around, laughing at him, a sound of excitement, childish joy, and happiness.

Later there would be logic, and questions as to how this came about. For now there was just the happiness of a friend, and _special/magic/wow_, and forever!

* * *

Of course, all good things come to an end, and Hermione had been visiting her Aunt in Little Whinging, Surrey, England. The visit had been drawn out, when Hermione started to form a rapport with an age mate, her remoteness having been an object of much anxiety between herself and her parents, but the visit had to end, and one day Hermione was just not there anymore.

But her presence lingered, letters were exchanged, and Harry often thought of her, spending much of his free time on the swings of the park, pushing himself back and forth with a single toe, and just spending quality time with his sister, sensing her doing the same many miles away, as they had learned to do.

They sank in to each other's company, feeling cleansed after a hard day by the pure familial acceptance that always flowed through their bond. It was a sacred time for them.

While originally the bond had only, if a bit forcibly made them aware when either was hurt, always seeming to accuse, 'You promised to take care of each other...' though Hermione had said that Harry was being too fanciful about it. But after a while, it relaxed, and it had been Hermione who had said that it seemed to trust that they would do something, even if that was only sending reassurance to each other.

By this time, with plenty of practice, they could actually communicate, to some degree with each other, if not in words, then in flashes of images, and feelings. The children had long since concluded that the bond was an odd result of the vow they had made, which logically said that it had something to do with loving, helping and protecting each other.

After going back to Tom Sawyer, to reread the actual mention that Huck had said, Harry had sometimes wondered what the consequences of breaking the oath would be, what would happen if he deliberately let Hermione get hurt, or hurt her, or stopped loving her. But that wouldn't happen, he knew. They would always have each others' backs, no matter what.

* * *

Then there's magic, and _startled/surprised/amazed/delight_ on one end of the bond, and weary curiosity on the other end. Then there is Hagrid, and careful nights trying to arrange it so that they'll meet each other in Diagon Alley, trying to avoid the miscommunication, that's so easy through their bond.

And then there is meeting again, after a few years, and with any other person it would be awkward, but never with his little sister.

She was dawdling near the entrance to an entire world of magic, hidden behind a normal looking brick wall. Harry saw her, and joy erupted on both sides of the bond, the panther stretching and purring, while Hermione sped to meet Harry.

As easily as if he had been doing it his entire life, Harry caught her, letting her momentum swing them both around, before setting her back on her feet, and she was babbling as she always did, when happy, while he just smiled so that his cheeks hurt, until a quietly cleared throat brought them back to a normal world.

Two nervous looking strangers stood there, looking at Hermione, and Harry automatically shifted slightly to put himself between them, before Hermione exasperated, said, "My parents, Harry."

"Of course," he murmured, but did not move from his stance, his only concession to politeness being an inclination of his head. They shifted nervously, looking past him at Hermione, who sighed, before pushing Harry out of the way.

"Mum, Dad, this is Harry, my friend. Harry, stop being useless." They still did not seem to know what to do, glancing continuously from Hermione to Harry, then back. Harry rolled his eyes, then sighed as Hagrid approached, and the Grangers grew even more apprehensive.

He saw Mrs. Granger pull Hermione aside quietly, heard her hissed, "But you only knew him for a month or so!" and heard Hermione's question, "So?" before the rest of the conversation was lost in the hubbub that erupted as they entered the wizarding world.

* * *

Sorry Luna, this is getting a bit out of hand. It's 3000 words already, and my original top estimate was 2000. I (kinda) intend to continue this, but I've never done a chaptered fic, ever before, so I don't know if I have the will to finish it.

And I can't seem to do humor to save my life, so I just try to go with a 'feel' for my scenes. (sad, touching, family, protectiveness, etc.)

My eventual decision was just to make sure it could still always be read as a oneshot. Lets see how it goes, 'kay?

**Hija.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Not my work. Credit goes to Luna for the idea, and to J. for the original work.**

* * *

The world seems twice as vibrant when you are happy, and it was undeniable that the children were. The rapport that they had built seemed odd to observers, their entire selves somehow in tune with each other. But it was a good sort of odd, and most observers just passed with a smile, a laugh, or a brief look.

Diagon Alley was a fantasy world for children who had lived the most normal lives possible. But their joy came not only for a half-spoken wish come true, but for each others' presences, their bond almost seeming to sing in joy and relief.

They noticed little of the world around them, engrossed in running around each other, first one chasing the other, then the chase turning, and the hunter becoming the hunted, then the game stopping altogether and two little heads bending to share confidences, or a joke, but private, and shared quietly.

Other times they walked next to each other, not holding hands, but so very _next to each other_ that it was undeniable that they were accompanying each other, that they had a connection that most would never come close to. Even when either looked away from the other, their bodies betrayed them, angling so that they were not turned away, truly.

Sometimes they were completely silent, sharing only glances at most, but seeming to share entire conversations in the quirks of lips, raising eyebrows, quiet laughs. Sometimes they seemed a lot older, in the way they contained their emotions, suppressing them down into little emotive gestures, the raising of a hand, the crinkling of an eye.

To the watching, concerned parents, this said a great deal, mostly false.

That is not to say that the world was ignored. A sun shone, though it was not very hot a day. People wandered, clearly wizards, dressed in odd dress-like robes, pointed hats, and in the glimpses seen in the swish of a robe parting at each step, thigh length lace-up boots in the oddest colors.

Shops passed, with names from the normal _Saffron's, _a clothing shop which catered to wizards, therefore a robing shop, to the _Cauldron's Bubbles_, an apothecary. The children pointed them out to each other excitedly, wondering what exactly was the import of each shop, what it's role was, how normal, how necessary, how basic.

Both wondered, secretly, exactly how ignorant about the very fundamental necessities of this world they were, and resolved to solve it. And their thoughts had never been that secret. Harry knew of Hermione's misgivings and vice versa.

Both stretched comforting tendrils of thought to each other, comforted and comforting within a fraction of a second, reassured and reassuring, loved and loving, and finished.

That was the power of their bond.

* * *

Ollivander's had always been, traditionally, the last shop on the list of a Muggleborn, and the first shop on the list of a Pureblood. Maybe it was one more way of discrimination, and maybe there was no such malicious reason, and it was just coincidence. Maybe Purebloods waited for their wands all their lives, as the ultimate all purpose tool, a badge of their world. And Muggleborns waited for it for but a few months, or even a day of delicious anticipation.

Whatever the reason be, it was not so for this set of Non-Purebloods. They started the trip with a visit to the bookstore, (After Gringotts, which was obvious), then insisted on going to Ollivanders.

The shop's door opened inwards, and the swinging of the door disturbed the bead curtain hanging on the threshold and the tinkling sound flooded the small musty shop in which they were entering.

The sunlight streaming in through the door Harry had held open for the rest of his companions - Hermione, her parents and Hagrid - to enter, lit golden thousands of dust specks disturbed by the motion that seemed so long undisturbed.

Of course, that was not possible, since Hagrid had described the proprietor as the foremost wandcrafter in Britain, which meant that his abilities would be in high demand. Especially around this time of the year.

Which meant that this was faked. Some sort of illusion, perhaps? It was definitely done with style. An attempt to impress newcomers into the world of magic of the importance and mysticism of their wands? Perhaps it was for the wandcrafter's personal amusement. And perhaps there were greater reasons.

Injustice has a way of breeding cynicism.

Before Hermione's dramatic entrance into his life, Harry had been perfectly unconcerned by most of the mistreatment accorded him by his relatives, accepting it as his due. You can't miss what you've never had, after all. But after you have been given a glimpse of it... (And Hermione was more than a glimpse, thankyouverymuch.)

Well, injustice has a way of breeding cynicism.

Although Harry had been looking towards the door, he was not startled when someone coughed from behind him, the bond having pulsed in warning as soon as Hermione had seen the man approach him.

The slow turn he executed was meant to show to the man that Harry was not impressed. Halfway through, however, he decided he was.

The man was an impressive caricature of what every Muggleborn would expect a wandcrafter to be. Excentric, creepy... everything was there. "Harry Potter..." the man breathed, and even the _tone_ was perfect.

There was little to actually say, of course, to a man who told Harry summarily that his _dead_ mother and father had had such and such a wand, with not even a pretense of tact.

Then there was working through wand, after wand, after wand, even as Hermione watched, burning with _anger_ that the wandmaker was playing with him, and he was sure of it, and how dare-

The latest wand exploded in his hand.

Everybody in the room started, except Hermione, who gave a long slow blink at Harry. Nothing either of them did would surprise the other. Externally, at least.

Really?

Hermione had a tight grip on his... call it his mind, threatening to press, just a little, and give him a head ache for the rest of the day. A grip that said she meant business, and _calm down,_ _**now.**_ Harry relaxed himself forcibly, feeling Hermione's grip relax in tandem. They both sighed in relief, unwittingly out loud, and Hermione's parents exchanged glances as eloquent as any Harry and Hermione had ever exchanged.

Olivander looked between the two, and his pale eyes widened, and for once he looked something other than entirely in control of the situation, as he had even as Harry took vindictive pleasure from the unpredictability of unmatched wands and wrecked random and destructive havoc on his shop.

He hesitantly brought out one wand from the back of the shop, the one Harry fully believed that he had intended to give Harry in the first place. Harry reached to it, and had only to touch it when it burst out into red and gold sparks.

Picking it up only erupted in more, and Harry listened only vaguely to Olivander's explanation of it's core, phoenix feather, and it's length, which he promptly forgot. He ignored all of Olivander's attempts to make him curious, repeating _'How curious, how curious.'_ as if truly amazed, but always deliberately just within Harry's earshot.

It was only as Harry started to pay for the wand, fully intending to ignore whatever the wandmaker wanted to tell him, that the wandmaker dropped his act, and warned him against that wand. He told Harry that the wand was brother to the one that had killed Harry's parents, and at this second mention, Harry snapped.

The wand _burned_ in Harry's hands. A white hot flame flickered over and around his fingers, leaving them unscathed as the wand burned itself to ashes around them. Harry reveled in noticing that the dust covering the shop disappeared for an instant- False, he was certain. And Hermione quietly and surely gave him a migraine that would last for the rest of the day.

He might have winced.

The wizards around him had paled. Hermione again had not reacted visibly. The Muggles had started moving towards the door, trying- and failing- to tug Hermione with them.

There was stillness.

Harry broke the silence, eventually. "I have only one sibling." he said calmly, his young voice innocuous in the stillness, "And I have no wish to deal with whatever problems a _b__rother bond_ with my parents' _killer _brings."

After a moment, Ollivander moved. "I have one more pair," He said, and he was speaking in a normal tone of voice, without the creepy undertones. "Perhaps you and your honored sister would like to try them?" He nodded at Hermione.

Both of the children started.

They were still children, not superhuman, though they were intelligent, and their lives had not been truly normal.

So they were startled, and reacted. But the wandcrafter had already moved. He went towards the back of the room lined with shelves upon shelves of dusty armlengthed boxes holding long, slim, shiny pieces of wood that could preform miraculous deeds, leaving no footprints behind him in the layers of - false - dust on the floor.

He brought back two boxes, not of cardboard as most of the others were, but of wood, inlaid with gold wire in an intricate pattern. He opened these boxes slowly with a visible, odd, reverence, explaining as he did so, "My mentor made these, not me. Most wandcrafters only make one sibling pair per life, and this was my master's. They are crafted from the root of a Linneth tree, with cores from the scales of the same dragon."

He handed one of the wands to Hermione and the other to Harry, then stepped back carefully, a wise decision, considering what had happened with the last two wands.

"On the count of three?" Harry suggested, turning to Hermione, who smiled. There was no count aloud, though both children raised their wands at the same time with a perfect swish. A grey streamer emerged from Harry's wand, while Hermione's emitted pure white sparks.

The adults burst into slightly relieved applause, while the children smiled, having felt their wands' connections and liking the idea of having one more connection between the two of them.

* * *

There was little more of amusement that day, except that which they forcibly squeezed out of each others' company, Hermione ignoring the presence and slight worry of her parents with the thoughtlessness that being an eleven year old brings.

For that day, their worlds were each other, engrossed as they were in the differences the bond brought when so close to each other. There was still shopping to complete, but nothing could actually pull all of their attention apart.

They played, ran, laughed, watched, and at the end of the day, held each other, if not physically then mentally, for Hermione did not wish for her parents to worry too much before she had a chance to tell them some of what had occurred over her vacation with her aunt.

Hermione freed Harry from his migraine as he turned away to go towards his own house, a gentle goodbye in a day of chaos, excitement and joy.

And then they went home, separated as much as they ever could be, tired, and lonely.

Sometime at midnight, Harry snuck out of his house to go to the park where he and Hermione had spent their time, and sat on the swings where they had sat together.

If a night watchman had passed by there, he would have seen a boy swinging for all he was worth, pushing himself higher and higher and higher, until at the peak of each arch, he could see for miles and if he imagined very hard, all the way to the dark window where his sister sat, looking his way.

But no one did, so no one saw the boy fly as he let go of the swing at the very highest point it could get. No one watched the boy continue the arch, flying up, up, up, then descending too slowly to be true, like a falling leaf, laughing in pure delight as he gently settled on tiptoe on the ground, as lightly as a fallen snowflake.

* * *

Then there was waiting at home with a terrified cousin, a belligerent uncle, and a disgusted aunt. He tried not to let it affect him, and Hermione was a great help there, calming him, distracting him at crucial times.

The bond had evolved again, still not allowing for much communication, but as it had allowed Hermione to give him headaches, (Harry couldn't because of the crippling guilt it poured on him if he deliberately hurt Hermione) it allowed Harry to calm Hermione and affect her emotions, though she always knew what Harry was doing.

Then the day arrived, and he was loaded into a car, his entire 'family' dropping him off to platform Nine and Three Quarters, laughing in his face as they showed him the counter between Platforms Nine and Ten. They laughed in his face as they drove away. Harry did not find any need to panic. After all, Hermione would be coming, and they'd both figure it out together.

Hermione didn't arrive, and soon enough Harry had figured out how to enter the platform by listening to wizards chatter around him. After waiting for a few more minutes, he entered the platform, the noise of a train overwhelming him, along with the noise of the hustle and bustle, the cries of children, the farewells and greetings flying over and across him.

For a moment he wondered what it would have been to have had someone calling to him too, but then he banished the thought. What he had was enough. More than enough.

He climbed onto the train, claiming an empty compartment, and settled himself, leaning his head against the glass of the window, to listen to the activity in himself, waiting for Hermione to give any indication that she had arrived.

Slowly the noise started to lessen, as he filtered it out, until he was listening more to the beating of his heart, the whooshing of his breath, feeling more the cold of the glass against his cheek, then listening to or feeling the hubbub.

Then the compartment door slid open. He knew without looking up who it was, and smiled without opening his eyes. Hermione entered, the door sliding shut behind her. She put down her books onto an empty space, sat against the opposite window mimicking Harry's pose, joining him in the depths of their consciences where they could choose to intermingle so that neither knew where one started and the other ended.

Neither stirred as the train started. Neither stirred when the door opened, closed, then opened and closed again, signalling someone's arrival and departure. Neither stirred for a long long time.

This was how the siblings came to Hogwarts.

* * *

2502 words. I like. This is the length it should be.

Anyway. I'm not sure the tone for this is like the one before it. God only knows, I don't. And of course, you guys know. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me. Luna, I'd like nice constructive crit for this, pleeease? You do awesome-cool ones.

Also, Ollivander's. I am _not_ sure where that came from. But yeah, Our Harry is **_different._ **I have no idea if my hastily cobbled together explanation works.

Also, this universe is becoming _fun._ That means that I have no _real_ control over what happens next. I do know the plot, I just don't know _how _ it will work. I meant to write Madam Malkins, and Gringotts as the written in parts. Instead we get faking Ollivanders. Odd.

**Hija**


	3. Chapter 3

Dedicated to T. H. Enesley, my first reviewer of the second chapter. Not for being first, but for what they said. Dearest, writing is best done for others, I have always thought. This chapter I write for you, the last one for those who asked me to continue, the one before that mostly 'cause a prompt was eating my brain out, but also for Luna. Most of my usual stories are in an odd twisted way for a sister who'll never see them.

Also, of course, for my own joy. I won't ever be pushed into doing something I don't _want_ to do.

Thanks for reviewing, and wanting me to continue. I did, and here:

* * *

It was a long long time before either stirred, but no one disturbed them sensing something out of ordinary near them. People entered, tiptoeing to see the Boy-Who-Lived, who seemed to be in a trance. Perhaps, they whispered, he was a Seer, or something. Perhaps he was doing some amazing magical technique. Most overlooked the girl, her bushy hair a curtain between her and any observer, leaning against the opposite window, gazing out unseeingly, with an occasional blink.

But despite the clamor, no noise reached the compartment where the two sat. All they felt was warmth, acceptance, comfort, companionship, love, family, things that Harry more than Hermione, had been deprived of for so long that he would never take them for granted.

Their bond had changed, and kept changing. While Harry would have expected Hermione to be as unable to cause him any pain at all as he was to her, that seemed not the case. It seemed to demand protection/love from Harry, and acceptance/love from Hermione, and as Hermione quipped, love, affection, friendship also involved being the first to stop someone when they went too far.

Vindictive, or cruel, they could never be to each other.

As entwined mentally as they were separated physically -by an entire compartment- they reveled in the contact, pushing aside barriers with the unconcern of children who had not yet learnt of emotional barriers, or tact. Communication, as such, they could still not manage, and Harry was beginning to suspect that it would never happen.

Time passed, the world around them swept past. The compartment door opened, people pointed, whispered, then reverently closed it again, a pilgrimage repeated many times.

The light darkened as the angle of the sun changed, directly over head for a while, shining into neither window. The train still rushed onward. Soon the sun was sinking towards the horizon, now a flaming ball of fire shining directly into Hermione's face.

There was a quality of timelessness to the still scene, that should have been so rushed, with the movement of the train. Fewer people tried interrupting now. As ever, the children were still. The sun sank lower and lower, the room darkening, and neither of them had turned on the lights earlier, and they certainly wouldn't now.

The train rushed on, and any observer would see shining windows, light flooding into the dark countryside, silhouettes visible behind the curtains. Then an odd dichotomy, a completely dark compartment.

The silence, the timelessness shattered in a shrill sound, a bell ringing in the darkness. The train was nearing Hogwarts, and students were being warned to change.

Inside the dark compartment, the children stirred in unison, turning away from their separate windows and stretching tired muscles. Hermione rubbed her cheek ruefully; It was red from where she had leaned against the window.

Slowly the children started moving, turned on the light. It was as if the entire world let out a sigh of released tension, relaxed.

* * *

Hogwarts was a timeless vision of beauty across the dark water. It blazed welcomingly, lit windows reflecting waveringly on the lake alongside the nearer reflections of the boat lanterns on the water. The dark castle should have loomed, as dark, huge and should-have-been-imposing silhouette that it had. Perhaps it was just hard to be intimidating with a name like Hogwarts. Perhaps...

Hearts were beating faster at the approach, if not in apprehension than in excitement, delight, even grief. Some realized that their parents, and their parents' parents had all gone through this journey once, felt these emotions once, and held a properly solemn silence. Any that felt the need to giggle, to whisper, or even to talk out loud, found their voices stretched, and reflected eerily back at them. They soon stopped. Anyone with any degree of understanding in themselves felt that the trip was best conducted in silence.

The boats glided in to a stop at the bank, and the children, still quiet, made their way up to the castle. The door opened, a women, severe-looking, beckoned them in and left them in an antechamber. And they waited.

* * *

The children stood in rows, some twenty of them, waiting for their names to be called, the course of their next seven years to be decided. Harry and Hermione had not discussed whether either had any specific wishes as to which houses they wished for, and secretly, both had simply wished to remain together.

They stood, heads bowed together holding each others' hands almost desperately, wishing hard that their supports not be stripped away. They stood out among the fidgeting crowd of children as the only ones not moving aimlessly, just standing together, and as always, intensely _together. _Candles dripped wax around them, people chattered, reunited, others made new friends and the two stayed there, communicating soundlessly.

The hall's sources of lights flickered and danced, and people were called out. Decisions that would affect the next seven years of the childrens' lives were made, passed in a few seconds by, of all things, a talking hat. Not many were truly interested in the sorted, cheering dutifully for each newcomer, but not much else. And amid the movement, the bustle, the flickering fires, the laughter, the anticipation, the nervousness, siblings of a deeper bond then most those of blood, stood together, unmoving.

Soon their time was up, and Professor McGonagall, as the woman who had met them at the door had introduced herself, called for Granger, Hermione. For a while nobody responded, the two children, still standing still. Then Hermione twisted her grip on Harry's hand, and they shook hands solemnly, while the entire hall's gazes zeroed onto the girl accompanying the boy that the rumors said was _Harry Potter!_

Then she pulled her hand away, and left with a last tremulous smile back at Harry, walking to the Hat with a firm step, sitting down and pulling it over her head.

The next few moments were the longest that Harry had had to face. He wondered which house his sister would be sorted into, whether it would make a difference if they were sorted away from each other. The next moment he was shaking his head firmly, feeling the bond between them both. Nothing would separate them.

He saw nothing but the small girl on the low stool, old hat falling over her eyes, such eminently readable expressions passing over her face as she talked- no argued- with the hat. The girl who had become so very dear to him, so very quickly.

Harry was no fool. He knew that strong a connection, that fast, carrying such emotions was rather unnatural for the young shallow children that they were. He knew it had something to do with magic, and something to do with the vow he had taken, though not what.

But he was very content with the way things were. If he was forced to feel so very... _very_ towards Hermione, then he was also completely reassured that she felt the same.

Eventually the Hat spoke, jerking Harry from his thoughts. "Hufflepuff."

The black and yellow decked table cheered, and Hermione stood from the stool, removing the Hat from her head, and glancing at it thoughtfully before handing it to Professor McGonagall.

She looked back at Harry, who gave her a reassuring smile, then walked to the Hufflepuff table, seating herself with dignity. Harry looked away from her, leaning against a nearby wall, forcing himself to pay attention to the rest of the sorting. Sometimes it took a long time, and other times it was finished immediately. Hermione's had been the longest to date.

It seemed to take a long time until it was _"Potter, Harry's" _turn. He amused himself, trying to distract himself from a hammering heart by mimicking Hermione's straight backed, dignified walk to the Hat, sitting and pulling the Hat onto his head with hands that wouldn't _stop trembling_.

_"Good day, young Guardian." _was the hat's greeting.

Harry blinked.

* * *

There was silence throughout the hall, a silence unprecedented during any other sorting. The whispers that had been generated by the first announcement of Harry's name were long since silenced. The only movement was the flickering of the light cast by the candles in the Hall. People stared at the boy hero, and not a muscle twitched, everyone wondering where he'd be sorted, and what that would indicate of his character.

Far above, the night sky was dark, and the hall seemed even cozier in comparison. Gleaming cutlery waited for a feast, and the stillness grew uncanny. Someone fiddled with a fork, letting it _clink, clink... clink, clink..._ against something else, a glass maybe. Someone else hissed for him to stop. Someone sneezed, then quickly hushed. The night sounds started flooding through into the room, the buzz of insects, the far off sound of birds, the echoing, high call of a centaur's horn...

The world seemed to wait for a decision.

Which was then made.

_"Hufflepuff." _The Hat sighed, where it would usually shout. And the stillness broke, a roar erupted.

In the ensuing hubbub, few people noticed Hermione ease her white knuckled grip from the table, and slowly relax her straight-backed posture with a sigh of relief.

* * *

1671 words. Now that is what I used to consider a proper length. Not anymore, I guess. But. It was quick. Was it worth it, ya think? I think this is more along the lines of my first chapter than my second chapter. Also, it is terribly hard to keep the story permanently oneshot-able. I don't think I can any more. Sorry guys.

T. H. Enesley: I wrote every single word for you. Now tell me what you think, not whether or not you have the right to ask for more. By the way, you do. Asking is always worth it.

I thank every single person who took the time to write a few lines to me.

**Hija.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

* * *

Harry Potter entered Magical world, unaware of his fame, the power his name carried. So enamored of the world presented to him, so fascinated, unbelieving was he that it took him an entirety of forty-eight hours before he realized the implications carried in people turning to look at him, in whispers blooming where he walked.

Later he looked back on these forty-eight hours, two entire days as his time of bliss, his childhood. Of course, this outlook was later, colored by wearied eyes that observed his long ago innocence with cynical eyes; Knowing of his fame did not in any way mysteriously change him overnight from a very young, somewhat contained boy to a jaded mature lad carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But it is truth to say that he was remarkably happy, an entire world at his fingertips, the wonder of magic, finding an entire world that was frankly medieval, managing without technology, but as well as the twentieth century world outside their firmly drawn boundaries with the use of their magic.

Of course, he did not find out about his fame in any normal or very kind way.

* * *

He had turned to look at Hermione ever so expressively as soon as he had realized that the classroom was actually going to be in a dungeon. She had raised her eyebrows at him, before returning her attention to the tall boy who had led them to the class, a second year assigned on rotating basis to escort the 'firsties' to their various classes.

She was the only person listening to him as he tried to make the rest of their year _be quiet_ and _sit down!_ The rest were boisterously acquainting themselves with each other, already forming the friendships that would either flourish or break in the next seven years. Harry didn't really know anyone yet, having stuck to himself, or with Hermione.

Soon the Second year left, giving up on the general instruction on the course and professor that he was supposed to do. The noise didn't recede, even grew on his departure. It was amplified by the dungeon, echoing, and growing until it was hard to even think.

Harry and Hermione obtained a workplace to themselves and perched on the counter side by side, swinging their legs freely and watching their classmates mingling with the Ravenclaws with whom they shared the class. Every once in a while one of them would comment on something and the other would reply, but it was mostly in silence that they sat, surrounding themselves with an almost unconscious bubble of unapproachability that daunted more than one person who contemplated approaching them.

So it was that they were the first to notice that the door had opened.

The first impression Harry Potter had of Severus Snape was an image of Darth Vader superimposed on him. The cloak, the sneer, the aura… He whispered his opinion to Hermione, still the only other person to have noticed the teacher's presence.

So it was that Severus Snape first saw Harry Potter with his head thrown back, laughing. He disregarded the grinning girl next to him with his habitual sneer, focusing on the son of both the love of his life and his worst enemy. Perhaps it would have been better had Harry not noticed the professor, or not found something funny in that moment, for the image he formed was remarkably reminiscent of his father, in that moment, carelessly perched, his expression alive with laughter, his legs swinging…

It was a short interlude, the mutual forming of first impressions, cautiously hostile on one end, frankly approving on the other. They were not to last.

Snape had always known how to affect an entrance with style. A whisper froze the students where they were: '_Silence.'_ It echoed around the dungeon in an awe inspiringly effective manner, stopping students where they stood, sheepishly assembling in proper order at the workplaces after a stunned moment.

Silence spread, and the sound of Snape's deliberate steps resounded off the stone walls, further grabbing attention. He spoke again after a brief pause, his voice dry, low, whispery, echoing off the hard stone of the walls, the echoes adding to the cadence that held the students spell bound, almost petrified, absolutely silent, describing the beauty of his work, of a potion in it's many stages.

His voice remained dry, but his eloquence indicated a certain attachment and competence in his line of work. He paced as he talked, his cloak billowing behind him. He was graceful, his steps gliding, his carriage intimidating, and Harry was in love. He couldn't resist leaning over to Hermione, whispering, "I want to be _him_ when I grow up." emphatically into her ear.

She turned and gave him a look, an eyebrow expressively arched. If Harry had tried to he couldn't have explained his sudden extreme admiration for this newest teacher whose name he did not know. All he knew was that this man was no charlatan relying on smoke and mirrors like Ollivander, or a half insane Gandalf look-alike, or a huge, slightly unintelligent man, or an old woman who looked just like a normal headmistress, except for the robes.

This man was deadly. He had actual power. His cloak _billowed._ He was Harry's newest ideal as a wizard. So he just shrugged back at her, before returning his interest to the _awesome_ wizard.

And right on time, for the teacher had begun calling the roster. For a brief moment, Harry wished his second name began with a letter that came earlier within the alphabet, but then he discarded it, leaning his elbows on the work table he was sharing with Hermione and gazing adoringly at his newest idol, ignoring Hermione's increasingly frustrated nudges against his mind. She didn't seem to get it. He was star struck! He needed to bask for a little!

Then everything started going wrong, started _fracturing _as that dry dry voice paused before continuing, "Ah yes. Harry Potter. Our new – _celebrity._"

There was such scorn in that voice and Harry found himself inexplicably hurt, as hypersensitive as he was to any sort of harsh tones within a voice, and he didn't _understand-_ "No- I mean- _celebrity?_" People were turning to look at him, he knew. They looked askance at the Teacher, but they wondered at his reaction.

He didn't understand, but he took the time to chastise himself for sounding so _stupid_. Then Hermione had given him a hand, and it was an anchor, and enough to pull himself together, demand an explanation, and he didn't know what he said.

Only that it was the beginning of the worst conversation he had ever had, being told of the true deaths of his parents in that emotionless dry, so dry voice, that he had so admired but was beginning to hate, told in the same cutting wording that he had been so impressed with, and eventually told with unsympathetic harshness his claim to fame, surviving the thing that killed his parents, took his family away from him. Interjected within the narrative were insults to his father, continuous assurance that his fame was an undeserved freak accident, that he was an idiot…

He felt as if it had taken hours, but forcing himself to look at the clock her perceived that not even a quarter of an hour had passed. The room was quiet after it ended for a long moment. Then Hermione was standing, saying something to the professor, leading him out of the room, so cool once but so oppressive now.

She pulled him after her, and they climbed stairs so many, up, up, up. Her objective was the top of one of the towers, and they stopped there, Hermione pulling him to lie on his back. And they lay there for a long long time, staring, at the sky, watching birds, and just listening, deeply, to each other, to the world as a whole. It was almost as if they had sunk into each others' presences, but not for they were intensely aware of outside world, extending their senses, listening to the far off song of a bird, the rustling of a forest as a strong wind blew through it, once hearing the thundering of hundreds of hoofs passing almost close by, and also hearing the pulse of friendship, calm, love between the two.

It was a long time before Hermione stood up herself and offered him a hand up, pulling him to his feet and momentarily blanketing him with her presence, almost as if offering him a hug. He blinked, offered her a wavering smile, and followed silently.

* * *

Then there was facing lunch, which was when they finally descended, Hermione hovering next to Harry worriedly. She needn't have. They were Hufflepuff, and if the entire school knew of what Professor Snape had said to Harry Potter, so did all of Hufflepuff. They closed ranks about them, plying them with perfectly innocent questions, glaring off those who were wont to approach from other tables.

The school murmured, but Hufflepuff acted as it did every day. It showed a smiling face to the rest of the world and kept all muggle-born first years far away from Harry. When Harry, sick of the charade rose from the table, half of the house decided perfectly coincidentally that they too had had enough and Harry left the great hall surrounded by his house.

They reached their common room without incident, and when people showed an inclination to approach Harry, who had thrown himself into the armchair in front of the fire, with purposeful expressions, they were warned off by a glare from Hermione who was lounging with all the grace of a large cat on the rug next to Harry.

When Harry had gone up to sleep that night, Hermione talked to Hufflepuff. 'Later' she said to those who wished to reassure Harry that he was a hero, that they believed in him, that they wished to thank him, 'Later, when he knows you, when your words actually mean something. Let him mourn for a little.'

Thus Hufflepuff noted that Hermione Granger was the authority on Harry Potter, and they accepted her position at his side without a blink.

* * *

_Do you have any idea how hard this was to create? And I'm still not happy with it! (recurring theme that, huh?) It doesn't seem right to me! I spent all night on it 'cause I truly hated all of three different scenes I had written out. At least Snape meeting is done. And before people jump on me, I do not like Snape. He is mean. But I thought, well, he has style. And, ehm... _

_Interestingly, I went 'till 1:00 without sleep just 'cause. Then I said, Wow, I'm tired. It's easier to write when you're tired. And there you have it. I still don't like it._

_Also, guys, once people start calling each other brother/sister, there is no possibility of a romance left. **None**. For the idiots: that says, this is not a Harry Hermione romance. Nope, not at all. No romance. At all. Lets hope Luna behaves..._

_**Hija**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: 'Taint mine.**

* * *

It was, perhaps, fortuitous that Harry Potter was sorted into Hufflepuff. No other house could have restrained their curiosity about 'the Harry Potter' long enough to get to know him. Certainly, he wouldn't have been given the space Hermione had asked for.

But, well, he was Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuff took care of it's own.

* * *

Breakfast began badly.

The first thing Harry noticed, was that the enchanted ceiling showed an overcast sky, and the moving clouds were creating shadows on the flagstones. The second thing he noticed was the sudden lack of noise, as almost everybody in the hall turned to look at him.

The silence only lasted for an instant, before boiling over, in whispers, pointed fingers, even shouting, as people began to stand up for a better look, and he stood there, frozen-

Hermione rested a hand on his shoulder, coming up behind him, an infusion of courage, of confidence, because she believed in him, loved him, and it would always be enough.

Then there was a sudden infusion of noise, as a black and yellow clad wave of pointedly chattering and laughing students broke over Harry. In the confusion, Hermione grabbed his hand and plunged into their midst, pulling him alongside, and suddenly there were people around him, and he was being jostled, and Hermione's hand was his anchor, and none of them were paying much attention, shielding him from the invasive stares of the Hall.

It was sudden, unexpected, and the brief anonymity, in which no one looked at him, and he was just one of many Hufflepuffs, was like a breath of fresh air.

They reached their long tables, and the wave splintered, devolving into individuals, not just a mass of people, and Hermione pulled him to one end of the table, dragging him to sit next to her, settling as if she had done it a thousand times before.

He looked around, noticed that the table had been almost empty before they had all entered, also noticed that most other houses received students in two's and three's, trickling in at different times. He carefully didn't come to a conclusion.

The hall's level of noise slowly returned to normal. For a while they were alone, and for a moment those around them seemed to hesitate, before a short, blond, slightly self-important looking boy approached, his face set determinedly. He set his tray besides Harry's with a decisive thunk, and offered his hand.

"Ernest Macmillan." he said. "Call me Ernie." The clouds parted for the first time, and their table was lit by the sun for a brief instant. That could have been why Harry's answering smile was so brilliant.

And ended well.

* * *

The first years took their duty seriously, crowding in at one end of the table, distracting him from the rest of the Hufflepuff table, all but physically shielding their little hero from the inquisitive glances thrown his way. Soon enough, he was smiling, and cautiously joining in the general chatter. The table, as a whole, felt viciously accomplished.

Every look that lingered too long at that end of the table was met with concerted glares from the rest of it. They looked away.

Every person who stood as if to walk over, found that three or four students from the higher years also stood up, every so casually, as if to put away their breakfast, or something. They sat back down.

Covert implied threats were sufficient for most. Only one boy was so foolhardy as to actually attempt to talk to their Potter. A first year, arrogant, and as usual, overestimating his own importance, and underestimating Hufflepuff. He was intercepted by a seventh year prefect as soon as his intentions became obvious. A short, intense conversation later, he ran out of the hall. The prefect returned to his table to the tune of quiet clapping, and shook hands all around.

The hall watched, wide-eyed. The Hufflepuff first years carefully made sure Harry didn't notice.

The clouds shifted, roiled above them, as if mimicking the undercurrents within the room. Sunlight was momentary, brief flashes of blinding light, before the darkness crept in again. The air felt expectant, as if a storm lay on the horizon.

Hufflepuff had closed ranks around Harry Potter.

* * *

Harry learned the names of his fellow first years, a little late, but better then never. Ernest 'Ernie' Macmillan, a little pedantic and solemn, but genuinely nice; Susan Bones, sweet and outgoing; Hannah Bones, a little shy and already Susan's best friend; Megan Jones, '_yes_ that Jones, no I don't like Quidditch'; Oliver Rivers, with a tendency to block his view of the rest of the table, and a way of talking really fast, when he did talk; Leanna Rivers, his twin, who talked slower than him, but still faster than normal, and seemed really really observant; and Wayne Hopkins, who spent the entire time leaning _way_ back in his seat across from Harry and glaring past him.

Harry had chanced a look behind him, it was only Ravenclaw. He wondered what Wayne had against them.

The conversation flowed, if not without halts, then still relatively smoothly, and if Harry talked a little less then the rest, or Hermione occasionally gripped his shoulder for an instant, or Susan sent Harry one of those absurdly awed glances occasionally, and if, every time it happened there was a pause in which the rest of the hall's noise filtered through in what should have been companionable noise, but was, somehow, incredibly lonely, well, they mutually and silently agreed to ignore the incidents.

And as time passed, Harry started, if not speaking, then at least smiling, more, and Hermione simply rested a hand on his shoulder, and Susan stopped looking at him as if he was a god, or- or a hero, or something.

When he got up from the table, the entire group rose with him, and if he had bothered to look back, he would have seen that several of the older students had also risen, and were shooting glares across the room.

Coincidence, of course.

* * *

Hufflepuff took care of it's own, _especially _it's newest and youngest.

In normal circumstances, all it meant was that no Hufflepuff first year ever got bullied.

But in these circumstances? Harry Potter was theirs. He had their loyalty, their protection. Not that they would tell him, of course. But no one hurt one of theirs.

He was Hufflepuff, and in the end, Hufflepuff took care of it's own

* * *

Is severe writer's block a sufficient excuse? It took me forever to get the will to write this, after getting an idea of what I wanted to write about (Hufflepuff) in the first few days after the last chapter.

Then I finally decided. And it took me three days of writing and re-writing and re-re-writing, 'cuz I couldn't get the mood right. I still don't like it, but well, I can't write it again. I just can't. And it's still too short. 1086 words.

Sorry for the wait, guys. I love you?

**Edit**: Thanks for catching that, Guest, and isn't the royal prat (Zack Smith) a year younger than Harry? I always thought so...

**Hija**


End file.
